


Homecoming

by beastdrips



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Grief/Mourning, Hawke needs a hug this time, Lothering, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-22 09:42:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17057453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beastdrips/pseuds/beastdrips
Summary: After all that occured in the Gallows and becoming little more than fugitives on the run, Hawke and Fenris travel to Ferelden on a whim - and all that Hawke had lost and left behind becomes something tangible.Or: Hawke and Fenris go to Lothering.





	Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

> basically, Fenris trying not to feel like a stranger in Hawke’s grief. shameless self-indulgent angst (with kissing)

Ferelden was a lot less brown and dirt than Fenris had been lead to believe. As disinclined as he was to believe in stereotypes, the staggering amount of people - both fereldan in origin and not - describing the country as such did place certain expectations in his mind. But as they travelled further south, the rocky Coastland where they docked turned into the temperate woodlands and open fields of the Bannorn, the grass still a deep summer green and only a few leaves beginning to turn yellow and orange.

Fenris had never been to Ferelden, never been that far south in his life (as far as he could remember, at least) and it was unfortunate the circumstances which had led him here. He hadn’t exactly  _ planned _ on ever going to Ferelden, per se - hadn’t had much of a plan at all beyond killing Danarius, and during all that Hawke had lodged himself firmly into his life - but some part of him thought he would’ve liked to go there at some point. To be free to see the world.

When everyone else one by one left Hawke’s side, Fenris remained, and they had roamed the Free Marches for a while, keeping away from cities and larger towns as best they could. Up until one day when Hawke asked “Where should we go now, Fenris?”

He’d responded with, “What of Ferelden?”

They took ship in Ostwick, wearing hooded cloaks to keep from being recognized at first glance, not wanting to try and risk going back to Kirkwall. As far as they knew, the city was a mess in the wake of the failed Rite of Annulment, and they’d rather avoid the looming threat of Prince Sebastian making good on his promise to return with the full might of Starkhaven. The Circle had all but fallen, and Hawke concluded being there as just about the most notorious mage in the Free Marches would be nothing short of disaster.

He wasn’t willing to bet his freedom on the sway his title of Champion had more than he already had the past couple of years. Not after Meredith.

The Bannorn was largely country roads spinning a web that connected everything from large towns to meager villages to one another, the whole area neatly framed by the Imperial Highway. It was the tail-end of Kingsway, with Harvestmere just around the bend, and so the fields surrounding the farmlands they passed through were abundant with wheat, and the occasional corn.

At one point Fenris asked where all the turnips were, and elicited a rare bark of laughter out of Hawke.

But despite of the weight of what they were running from, it felt like they could breathe easier in Ferelden. No one cared about some Marcher Champion, if they even recognized him at all, which most of the time they didn’t; Hawke’s fereldan accent helped them blend in - as well as you could blend in when your companion is an elf from Tevinter with lyrium tattoos.

There had been a moment of tension when someone called out to Hawke when they were utilizing a larger town’s market to resupply. An older man with thin hair and deep wrinkles had approached them in a brisk hobble, and he’d looked Fenris up and down with a bemused uncertainty before settling his squinting gaze on Hawke. Expecting trouble, Fenris had almost begun reaching for his sword when the old man asked was if Hawke was  _ Malcolm’s boy _ . The relief was palpable.

“It’s a little nostalgic, honestly,” Hawke said later, when they were leaving the town behind them. “I haven’t been ‘Malcolm’s boy’ in a long time.”

 

\---

 

They set up camp after sundown, though it wasn’t much of a camp at all; they had no mounts to tie up, no tents to pitch. It was simply a matter of choosing a spot to build a fire and then putting their travel packs on the ground.

They ate dinner, drank from their waterskins, and then settled before the fire side by side.

Fenris thought about all that had lead them to this point. From their first meeting in the Kirkwall alienage all those years ago, to their first night together, Hawke’s rise to Champion, Varania, the mage-templar conflict coming to a head all leading to Anders making a choice, and the chaos that followed.

“You spared the abomination,” Fenris said, though not accusing. It was merely fact. Hawke gave an unamused snort, a smile on his face but without any mirth in his eyes.

“You want to talk about Anders? Now?” he asked, looking over at him. He looked so tired; even with the warm glow of their fire reflecting in his eyes they looked dull, the spark of mischief muted. Perhaps it would be better to leave it, to let this be just another conversation they never had, but a part of him was itching to understand, or at least have an explanation.

“Everyone was calling for his blood. You yourself said he _ used _ you, yet you let him go.”

Hawke sighed and ran a hand through his unruly hair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

“It’s.. complicated. Yes, he used me. He lied to me and held our friendship over my head for the sake of a cause I never wanted to be involved in,” Hawke said. “But he saved Carver. If it weren’t for Anders he would’ve died in the Deep Roads.”

Fenris hummed and said, “A life for a life, then.”

“That, and I didn’t want to give him the easy way out. So he could.. I don’t know. Face the music, I guess. Fix what he did, help the people he’d doomed.”

Fenris considered that, and found no fault in that line of thinking. If the abomination was so desperate for revolution, starting it and leaving it in the hands of others would be nothing short of cowardice. Hawke said he didn’t want to let Anders escape the consequences, but perhaps he really wanted to give him the opportunity to stand by his own words. Fenris’ ear twitched. Speaking of cause…

“You said you didn’t want to be involved,” he said suddenly, and noted how Hawke wouldn’t meet his eye. “But you were always adamant about your opinion on mages. I happen to recall having numerous disagreements over it.”

Hawke sighed.

“Do we have to talk about this, Fenris? You know my stance and I know yours, there’s no need to stir up the hornet’s nest. Maker knows the last thing we need is to argue.”

“I simply want to understand, Hawke.”

“Since when? You’ve never cared for understanding mages.” There was a challenge in Hawke’s smile, though directed away as it was, along with generous helping of skepticism. Fenris supposed it wasn’t unwarranted.

“Not mages, no. But I want to understand you.”

Hawke looked at him then, something unreadable about his expression. It was pensive, like he was deeply considering his words. Fenris met his eyes evenly, hoping to seem as sincere as he felt. Hawke let out a breath, or perhaps it was another sigh, and grabbed Fenris’ hand. He looked down at their interlocked fingers, turning their joined hands over. Fenris gave his hand a squeeze which beckoned a smile from Hawke.

“My magic manifested when I was six,” he began, and while Fenris didn’t see how that mattered much, he listened. “I was never afraid of it, or of what it could do. I had seen father practice it so easily I thought that was just how it was; easy, harmless. I was a kid, I didn’t know any better. I didn’t understand why I had to hide it, but I did it because my parents said the Circle would take me otherwise.”

“As I grew older and learned more, I understood why they locked away mages, and I thought it all very unfair. I feared the Circle and templars more than I ever feared magic, or demons. I was.. pretty naive.”

“You don’t say.” Fenris couldn’t help his dry comment, but Hawke had long since learned not to take it personally and simply shook his head with a smile.

“There were few templars in Lothering. It was largely untouched by magic, and the nearest Circle was on the other side of lake Calenhad. Of course, Kirkwall gave me a new perspective pretty quickly. I saw where the templars were coming from, what with all the rampant blood magic, but I understood the Circle mages as well. Everyone expected me to take sides.”

“But you sided with the mages in the end,” Fenris pointed out.

“It didn’t feel right that innocents would be made to die for what Anders did, for what a handful of blood mages did. It didn’t feel right that so many would be punished for the actions of few, people who had nothing to do with it; probably never asked to be part of it.”

Hawke was silent for a while, mulling over his thoughts. He still hadn’t really gotten to the point of Fenris’ question, and he considered reminding him of this fact. But as often as Hawke let the silence be when it was Fenris who spoke, to let him direct the conversation, he was willing to do the same.

“When.. mother died, I was filled with a rage like nothing I’d ever experience. I already knew grief, from father, from Bethany, even Carver, but what happened to her…” He drew in a deep breath, steadying himself. “I was angry. At her murderer, at blood magic, but most of all, myself. I hated myself, hated what I was, hated what I could be capable of. Again and again I thought-- I wished--” Hawke made a strained noise and dragged a hand through his hair.

Fenris stared at him, at the dark expression on his face. The idea that Hawke could ever hate magic was strange to him. He’d never seen him do anything but embrace it, advocate for it. Whatever hatred he’d felt after Leandra he had kept closely to himself, far out of sight of all his companions. Even so, there was no victory to be had in Hawke finally,  _ truly _ , understanding why mages should be feared. It was bitter, hollow, and something that should never have happened. Leandra Hawke didn’t deserve her fate.

“I’m sorry,” Fenris said, and not for the first time found himself at a loss for words. He didn’t recall his family, didn’t have any close bond to speak of. He couldn’t possibly imagine what it was like to be loved and cherished your whole life and then watch them wither away in your arms. It was far too easy to recall the harrowing ordeal, almost four years ago.

The sun had already set and Fenris had been nursing a wine bottle for the better half of an hour, lost in bitterness that seems unimportant now, when he had heard the front door to the mansion slam open. He’d grabbed for his sword, instinctively, and then heard Hawke call out, “Fenris!”, his voice panicked. Fenris opened the door to the master bedroom just in time to see him stumble up the stairs, breathing hard as if he’d sprinted the whole way there.

“Hawke?” Fenris had said, concerned at his pale face, the wild desperation in his eyes.

“Mother is gone.”

The search had taken them all across Lowtown, and finally to the abandoned foundry and the forgotten cellar beneath it, where they found her in the worst way imaginable.

“You’ll be all alone,” Leandra had said, her misty eyes wet with sorrow and death as she looked up at her eldest son, her remaining son. Hawke was turned away from the rest of them, so Fenris couldn’t see his face, but the mage’s voice had not even shook as he’d said: “I’ll be fine, mother.”

That was how Hawke was, always putting on a brave face for everyone. Never once shaking in his resolve even when he had no idea what he was doing - not for his family, not for his friends. Even as he held his dying mother in his arms he tried to comfort her, refusing to give in to despair so she would pass peacefully. Perhaps it was all he knew to do.

In the present, Hawke kept his eyes fixed on their joined hands, only the cracks and pops of the fire before them filling the silence.

“I thought it would tear me apart,” he said, his voice quiet. “But then I remembered Bethany, really remembered her. How her magic was so tentative, how she wanted nothing and desired nothing, only to be  _ normal _ . She always saw the best in people, always wanted to help... and I realized that no matter what shape magic takes, in the end it’s the person wielding it that matters. Magic has no intention, people do.”

Fenris felt the disagreement burn in his throat, how magic will always tempt, but he swallowed it down. Mages more often than not always wanted for power, the allure of it too sweet to resist, the ability to bend the world at a wave of the hand. He wondered briefly how many times Hawke had held back his disagreements in the face of his own outbursts.

He never knew Bethany, but from what little he’d heard Hawke speak of her, he could gather she was a good woman. A good mage.

“And all of this made you unwilling to rally to the cause…?” Fenris ventured, uncertain. Even with all of that laid bare, Hawke’s entire relationship to magic - so vastly different from Fenris’ - he still didn’t understand his reasons. If anything, what he said only affirmed his actions; always sympathetic to mages, always willing to give them the benefit of the doubt. Sending that half-blood boy, Feynriel, to the Dalish, letting the Starkhaven apostates in the cave escape, supporting Orsino-

“It all boils down to the fact that I am... Selfish,” Hawke said, interrupting his train of thought. “I just wanted to be a regular boring person, but unfortunately I was granted the gift of trouble and somewhere along the line suddenly all my choices and opinions had  _ weight, _ and I had to balance a whole city with that weight. I never wanted that amount of responsibility, but what kind of man would I be if I ran from it?”

Fenris knew the answer, but let the question remain rhetorical.

“I mean, I knew the goblet would spill eventually, with the way things were going, but I didn’t want to be the last drop. Or one of the last ones, at least. I didn’t want Anders to drag me into it.”

He looked at Hawke, looked at the fire, thought about what he’d said. Something about it didn’t sit right with him. He raised his free hand, the one not joined with Hawke’s, and touched his cheek, guiding him to meet his eye.

“You say you are selfish, yet over the years I’ve known you I’ve seen nothing but proof to the contrary,” Fenris said. “You jumped to the aid of all of us, even when we were complete strangers, asking nothing in return. You always did what you thought was right, not what would give you personal gain.”

Hawke’s eyes were large, attentive, as if he was hanging onto every last one of Fenris’ words. Aveline may have called him stubborn, Varric may have joked he was oblivious, but Hawke had always been keen to listen. Fenris had little experience in being considered so seriously.

“When I look at you, Hawke, I don’t see a selfish man. In fact, you are so selfless it gets you into far too much danger for your own good.”

Hawke smiled at him then, leaning into his touch and turning into it to press a kiss to his palm. Fenris’ heartbeat sped up the way it always did when Hawke was affectionate, still taken aback by the tenderness and warmth.

“Thank you, Fenris. Though I’m inclined to believe you are biased.”

Fenris smiled back at him and leaned forward to press a kiss to his lips. Hawke returned it eagerly, his hand reaching up to comb through Fenris’ hair.

“I might be,” he said as they pulled away. “But that doesn’t make what I’ve said any less true.”

Hawke chuckled and kissed him again before settling back.

“I should put up some wards so we can sleep,” he said. Fenris scoffed, earning him a mildly affronted look.

“Your wards are terrible, Hawke.”

Hawke stuck his tongue out, childishly, and got to his feet. “A shitty ward is better than none.”

Once Hawke was finished with his casting, the process making Fenris’ skin tingle from the magic in the air affecting his markings, they curled up under furs and blankets with enough armor on to still be relatively protected should the wards fail, but not  _ too _ uncomfortable.

Fenris lay on his side next to Hawke, his hand resting atop the man’s chest, disappointed he could not feel the beat of his heart against his palm for all the layers. Hawke’s eyes were closed, but there was a tension about his eyes; he was breathing too fast to be asleep. Fenris shifted closer, tucking his head into the crook of his neck as best he could, and he heard Hawke sigh softly.

Fenris knew there were things to be glad for. He was free, Danarius was dead, he was in love - with a fool, but in love nonetheless - and yet there was this strange sense of sorrow that clung to him like a shawl, and oddness he couldn’t place prickling in the corner of his mind.

He felt Hawke shift, the mage’s arm coming around him and his fingers starting to card through his white hair, and despite the confusing swirl of feelings within him the sensation was soothing and eventually it put him to sleep.

 

\--

 

They had a fairly pleasant breakfast the next morning. Hawke had insisted they bought tea at yesterday’s market, stating that he cannot wake up properly without it and that it was all Bodahn’s fault. Fenris had rolled his eyes, but he’d never been one to try and smother Hawke’s (many) quirks.

Most of the day’s travel passed without a hitch. Fenris stepped on a sharp stone at one point, and was berated not for the first time over his refusal to wear boots while Hawke tried to remember how healing magic worked.

Once Fenris could walk without wincing, they continued their journey. When they came over the top of a hill, Hawke stopped suddenly.

Ahead of them lay the husk of a village; the moss-grown houses delipidated, the streets empty. Some of the ruined buildings were surrounded by scaffolding in an abandoned effort to restore them. A small river ran through it, calm and quiet with not a breeze to disturb the waters. It was eerie, a ghost town, and by the way Hawke was silently observing without as much as moving a muscle, a distant look in his eye, Fenris could take a fair guess as to where they were.

Hawke continued down the hill without a word, and Fenris followed after a pause. The mage’s silence was unnerving, a stark contrast to his usual babble, but Fenris dared not break it. He tasted many words on his tongue, went over the beginnings of sentences in his head, but none felt right. As they continued into the village, he decided he would not intrude upon Hawke’s thoughts without invitation.

Hawke finally spoke when they reached what seemed to have once been a tavern. Most of the walls were gone, the entire roof collapsed, but a sign hanging above the door read  _ Dane’s Refuge _ .

“I broke my arm right here,” he said as if he hadn’t been in pensive silence the entire time. He pointed to a long-dead tree some feet away from the building. “I wanted to impress a girl by climbing it and hanging off a branch by my knees.”

“I take it you were not successful,” Fenris said. Hawke looked at him and gave a lopsided grin.

“Oh, I was successful, just not in the way I intended.”

“Not surprising. That’s usually how things turn out for you.”

“She wasn’t very impressed but she did fuss over me. I even got a kiss to make it better.”

Hawke pointed up towards the tree. Its bark was cracked and blackened, likely because of the Blight, and a single brown leaf somehow still clung to a thin, swaying branch near the crown.

“See that branch that’s snapped, right there? That was me.”

Fenris snorted and could easily imagine Hawke’s undignified yell when the branch snapped under his weight.

“How old were you?” he asked.

“We’d just moved here, so… sixteen, I think?”

“A little old to be climbing trees, Hawke.”

“There’s no such thing as too old to climb trees.”

They moved past the tree, Hawke taking the lead once more as they wandered through the village. There was more evidence of previous life scattered along the buildings; someone’s forgotten knapsack slouching against a wall, a single clothesline with moth-eaten laundry hanging limply, and, inexplicably, a chair sitting in the middle of the road.

Finally curiosity got the better of him and Fenris had to ask, “Where did everyone go?”

“Redcliffe, I think,” Hawke replied so swiftly and so easily Fenris felt stupid to have imagined there being any kind of conversational threshold to begin with. “Some probably moved to Denerim, to Crestwood, Highever... all over, really. Mother mentioned it a long time ago.”

Fenris glanced at another building beset by scaffolding, the collapsed roof half repaired and windows missing glass. They were closer to the outskirts now, houses becoming sparse and few.

“They were rebuilding. What drove them away?”

“Turned out the Blight poisoned the land. Crops wouldn’t grow and livestock got sick from the grass, so they packed up and moved on.”

He hadn’t noticed at first - or maybe he had and just not paid it much mind - how the grass surrounding the dirt road was dry and closer to yellow than green. Perhaps he’d just thought it the result of fall poised around the corner. But Ferelden was a land prone to rain and miserable weather and would likely not leave the grass wanting for water.

No, there was no dry spell; the soil was sick.

They veered off the wide dirt road suddenly, taking a much smaller path along a large barren field. This was no aimless wandering; there was purpose to Hawke’s steps, the way his eyes were fixed ahead with a mix of determination and trepidation. There was a house in the distance, though cottage would be a more apt description. There was a large oak tree a few feet from the house, towering over the building and sporting an impressive canopy. There was an air of power to it, and the thought that it might’ve been enchanted passed by.

A single frayed rope hung from a thick branch, and Fenris wondered if perhaps there’d been a swing there, once. A wooden fence that certainly had seen better days surrounded the property, the gate marked by two waist-high stone pillars, though they were hardly more than poorly cut squares stacked on top of each other. The gate itself was missing, with the only evidence to there ever being one the metal hinges hammered into the stone.

Fenris spotted it when they got closer. It lay splintered and broken in the unruly grass beside the path, though it looked as if it had been deliberately placed there rather than knocked down. Hawke reached out to touch one of the pillars as they walked through the space between them, a certain wistfulness to the gesture with the way his fingers slid along the rough surface.

Hawke stopped short of the front door. It was ajar as if no one had cared to close it. Hawke simply stared at it.

The cottage was small, felt smaller still when you imagined a family of five sharing the space. There was moss growing on the roof, though it was blackened and sick-looking, and there was an oddly shaped scorch mark above the door, almost like a handprint. It was so... unremarkable. So strange to think of Hawke, a great man in his own right, to have come from such humble beginnings; a little house outside a little town, barely worth mentioning.

Yet it meant so much to him.

Fenris wasn’t sure how to describe the feeling, but the closest would be  _ distant _ . Here they were, before Hawke’s old home, and so vastly different from one another. Hawke looked at this place as if just the idea of it caused him immeasurable pain, and Fenris had looked into his own sister’s eyes and felt nothing.

“Do you want to go inside?” Fenris asked. Hawke startled and looked at him like he’d forgotten he was there.

“I..” Hawke trailed off and looked very conflicted, then averted his eyes. Away from the house, away from Fenris. “No. I just wanted to see if it was still here.”

Fenris decided not to push it. If he were completely honest, he’d rather they left as soon as possible. Away from this old memory, away from this place that did nothing but remind Hawke of everything that will never be again.

“Well, now that you have seen it, where to now?” he asked, then made an attempt to lift Hawke’s spirits. “Perhaps we could travel to Orlais, track down the cat poet and have him answer for his transgressions.”

Hawke let out a weak snort, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. A small victory, but still a victory.

“There is.. One place I’d like to visit,” Hawke said with not a little hesitation. “I don’t know what it’s called, or if I could even find it again, but I would like to try.”

“Then that is where we will go,” Fenris decided, then added after a moment, “Do you at least have  _ some _ idea of where to head?”

“It’s south, towards the Wilds.”

 

\--

 

They set out at dawn the next morning, rising with the sun and having a brief discussion about which direction is actually south. The weather was good for travelling, and they encountered no trouble on the roads, though Hawke claimed there were few people hanging around the southern parts of Ferelden since the Blight. Only the Chasind were likely to be around, and they mostly kept to the Wilds.

Eventually an old fortress appeared in the distance; the ruins of Ostagar. Hawke said he had never seen it himself, but that was were Carver had fought under the crown. As they walked through the ruins, he told an abridged version of the story of the Hero of Ferelden, how two Wardens survived Loghain’s betrayal and single-handedly united the land against the Blight, ending with the Warden Alistair claiming the Fereldan throne.

They left it behind them, following along old dirt roads under relative silence, days passing by without anything of note happening. The lull was almost maddening. Ever since they came to Ferelden, Hawke’s natural chattiness had decreased significantly. No, before that; ever since the Gallows he’d cracked less jokes, started fewer conversations. Once, Fenris would have found the idea of that glib tongue of his finally stilled satisfactory, but now all he wished for was for Hawke to laugh again.

“We’re close,” Hawke said and raised his staff to point to a rise further ahead. “Over there, I think.”

When they came to the rise, Fenris noticed the unnatural mound, first, and then the rock sitting at one end of it almost obscured by a wild bush. Looking closer, he saw there were letters carved into the stone, thin and uneven - obviously not done by a skilled hand - and felt conflicted about ever letting Hawke teach him how to read.

BETHANY HAWKE

9:11 - 9:29

A hollow feeling settled in Fenris’ throat.

“I should’ve brought flowers,” Hawke said, his voice oddly light, like he was talking about the weather. “Or I don’t know... A trinket, maybe. One of those ridiculous Orlesian necklaces that are way too ornate. She would’ve laughed at it.”

Fenris stood there for a moment, caught in the strange detached feeling of loss for someone he never knew, then he removed the small white and gold shield strapped to his belt; the one bearing the Amell family crest. He stepped forward and carefully set it down, leaning it against the makeshift headstone. When he returned to Hawke’s side the mage’s eyes were glossy with emotion.

“You would’ve liked her,” he said thickly, his voice teetering on the edge of breaking. “Everyone would’ve liked her. There’s not a soul in Thedas who could dislike Bethany.”

Fenris pressed close to his side, wrapping an arm around his waist and holding him tightly. He didn’t doubt him, though he wished he could’ve had the opportunity to know for certain.

Hawke had spoken of his life in Lothering before, but it had always been superficial, or inconsequential, some event that didn’t touch any other lives but Hawke’s. He spoke easiest of Carver, his father second; Malcolm Hawke’s death was the furthest away, and had been shared among the whole family. Bethany had been mentioned now and again, but only ever briefly, as if he dared not delve too deeply. The grief over Leandra, he’d kept mostly to himself.

“Tell me about her,” Fenris said.

“She was reserved,” Hawke said, easily, like he’d been sitting on it for a long time. “Didn’t leave home much, because of her magic. She’d hate to be called sheltered but.. I guess she was.

“She liked to visit the Chantry, liked to listen to the lay sisters tell the story of Andraste and listen to the Chant. I didn’t really pay that much attention. but it was important to her. She loved stories.”

Hawke smiled, his expression telling he was somewhere far away - in time, in place. “When she couldn’t sleep she’d come to my bed and we’d hide under the covers and make up stories where she was a warrior-princess conquering whatever she was afraid of.

“And.. this one time, there was a spider in my bed - you know how I don’t like spiders - and I stood at one end of the room while she trapped it in a mason jar and let it outside. She was laughing at me the whole time.”

Hawke sighed; a shuddering sound.

“I hope she doesn’t blame me.”

Fenris tightened his hold around Hawke’s waist. He thought of the night after Leandra died, when he’d come to Hawke’s room and found him staring blankly into the hearth, asking if it was his fault. Hawke took the blame for everything, anything, far too easily - simply assumed the guilt like it was his purpose to.

“It was the darkspawn that killed Bethany, not you. Blaming you would be foolish,” he said. Hawke gave a wry smile.

“How pragmatic. Our dear Fenris, ever the voice of reason.”

“One of us has to be.”

Hawke chuckled, the noise weak in his throat, and leaned his head on top Fenris’ crown. They stood there holding each other, looking down upon the rushed grave of the youngest Hawke, and Fenris hoped with all his heart that Hawke would not lose anything else.

Fenris knew what it was like to have hurt eat away at you. It killed him inside to know hurt was eating Hawke, too.

**Author's Note:**

> Bethany/Carver deserved a burial and by god i will give them one
> 
> the _orlesian cat poet_ is a reference to my other fic: [getting comfortable](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16691362)
> 
> there were a number of scenes that were cut such as Hawke’s suicidal ideation after Leandra’s death (it’s only very, very, very vaguely implied now) and the boys actually going into Hawke’s old house. oh, and Wesley’s grave didn’t make it either.. Sorry Wes
> 
> now i gotta go and write about dysentery


End file.
